Sara Veglahn was born and raised in the American Midwest. Recent work has appeared in or is forthcoming in Conjunctions, Sleepingfish, Octopus, Fence, 26, Fairy Tale Review, the anthology Poets on Painters (Ulrich Museum of Art, 2007) and elsewhere. She is the author of three chapbooks: Closed Histories (Noemi Press, 2008); Falling Forward (Braincase Press, 2003); and Another Random Heart (Margin to Margin, 2002), and is co-author of the chapbook That We Come to a Consensus (Ugly Duckling Presse, 2006), a collaboration with poet Noah Eli Gordon. She is the Associate Editor for the Denver Quarterly and teaches literature at Naropa University and creative writing at the University of Denver, where she is completing her PhD.
A GROWING ACHE. Waiting for birdsong. The impermanence of a wing. A throat. The matter of becoming something else. What do you think about anything that happens? This is how the future operates: First you travel west and there is no water. Then you dream a world in sepia. What happens when you wake? Has it rained?
IN A MOON of many senses, there is a calling towards light. Crawling. To be awake and alive is sometimes too much to bear. Bear down on your hands and knees and crawl out of your life. A home is where you hang your howl. A howl is crawling up towards the ceiling.
AND ALL of us in our dark hooded coats, we are ancients around a pyre, the flames hot orange tongues killing the caribou mist. The lumber of our houses covered in mold and frost. Always a steady hum. This is what I see when I think of my origins, but I cannot be sure.
IN A MOON of many senses, there is a calling towards light. Crawling. To be awake and alive is sometimes too much to bear. Bear down on your hands and knees and crawl out of your life. A home is where you hang your howl. A howl is crawling up towards the ceiling.
AND ALL of us in our dark hooded coats, we are ancients around a pyre, the flames hot orange tongues killing the caribou mist. The lumber of our houses covered in mold and frost. Always a steady hum. This is what I see when I think of my origins, but I cannot be sure.
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